Alone with the Devil
by Crius96
Summary: 221b is the same place that we know it to be. Except for one small thing. John has a dark secret, and it's finally coming out into the open. From John's perspective, watch as a serial killer tries to make Sherlock Holmes doubt himself to the point of suicide.
1. The Devil Came to Play

_"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off, and you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."_

_"Why would he do that?"_

_"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopath's get bored."_

Yes they do. They do indeed.

That conversation had happened a year and six months ago, give or take a week and a day. Okay, fine, give a week and a day, but take away an hour. It was all relative anyway. John wasn't bored at the moment, he was actually rather satisfied.

He fished in his right trousers pocket for a black cloth as he stared at the ground in front of him. Sally Donovan had been correct, a year and a half ago, in her out loud musings. Her only problem was that she had never been much of a profiler.

John used the cloth to wipe the blood from the blade of his knife, so that he wouldn't get the inside of the sheath dirty, before he put his weapon of choice away. He then quickly stuffed the cloth back into his pocket, not really caring if he got blood on his clothes. He was inevitably going to burn them anyway. John was nothing if not careful. And smart. Smart enough to wait this long to profile Sherlock Holmes before deciding to toy with him.

He crouched down in front of the woman he had just murdered, reaching out with a gloved hand to close Sally's eyes and then lay coins over them. He smirked. Sally was a Christian—sorry, had been a Christian—and this was a Greek tradition. John's only trademark was mockery, and possibly sadism. He was too smart to leave something to be identified as "signature," especially now that he was sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes.

With a sigh, John rose gracefully to his feet once more. Oh, how he had missed this. There was an elegance to all of this that he didn't get anywhere else. It had been sheer hell, these last eighteen months, pretending to be normal.

John sneered. _Normal_ was vastly understating what he had been trying to be. He had been acting weak, pathetic, dependent. He had been a pushover. Sherlock thought _he_ was a good actor—please. The consulting detective had nothing, _nothing_ on what John had done over the time they had known each other.

It had been a complete turn-around, and he still couldn't be done with it. Though he was getting there. Patience was key, and if there was anything John Watson had plenty of, it was patience.

After patting his ankle to double check that his knife was there, and sweeping his eyes around the alleyway he had chosen for this particular murder to ensure that he had left nothing that could be traced to himself, he took fourteen and a half quick and long strides away from the prone body of poor Miss Donovan. At the mouth of the alley, he picked up the plastic bag full of his change of clothes and then took a right, heading off toward the Thames.

It was still a good two hours before dawn, which gave him plenty of time to get to the river, change, and burn the evidence away on the bank of the dirty water, where the tide would wash it away within an hour. It had been a very long time since John had done this, but that didn't mean he was any less careful, any less precise, or any less _good_ at it.

He walked the streets carefully, but relaxed. He did his best to avoid the streetlamps, without making it an obvious gesture. Doing so was tricky, but he wasn't an amateur. He walked on the far edge of the sidewalk, closest to the buildings, where the light had no angle save ninety degrees straight down, and there was a gap, small though it was, where no light shone. That was where John walked.

Every so often, if he felt someone had been watching him for too long, if he felt the prick of suspicion, he would step into the ninety degree light just to show them that all was well, and the sensation would go away. He was a great actor, and he was good at being reassuring.

There was an alley not too far from where he had committed the murder that opened up in the back to a nice view of the Thames. If there _was_ such a thing as a nice view of the Thames. John ducked down it quickly, happy to be out of the street and away from the people who were slowly starting to crowd it. He was familiar with alleyways, and this one in particular.

Once he knew he was in deep enough shadow to not be seen, he stopped, opening his bag and pulling out his change of clothes.

He stripped quickly and completely, exchanging even his shoes as he redressed in something Sherlock had grown accustomed to seeing him in. The khakis that he pulled on were loose around his legs but snug around his waist, giving the appearance that he was much less fit than he was. He sneered at them, hating their color and the way they made him look; he much preferred the faded black jeans he had just pulled off. Shame he had to burn them. A striped jumper and comfortable shoes completed the outfit, the knife and its sheath still safely hidden under the leg of his khakis.

With all of his dark clothes stuffed into the bag, he exited the alley at the rear, heading for the bank of the Thames. The slope was still slightly damp and therefore muddy, as it always was. There was something about the weather in London that kept the shores of the Thames from drying up between each tide.

John hated it. The footprints he left and the mud that was collecting on his shoes bothered him, but he knew there was nothing to be done about it. Besides, he had done this before—countless times—and had never gotten caught.

_You've never lived with Sherlock Holmes before._

_Fair point._

He dropped the plastic bag on the bank of the river, only a foot from the already rising water. He brought a lighter and a tissue from his pocket, dropping the tissue onto the clothes once it was lit. He knew better than to use matches, because a concentrated flame didn't catch as quickly. And what idiot would waste a perfectly good Zippo lighter by dropping the whole thing onto the clothes?

He stood by the bag just long enough to confirm that it had actually caught fire and would continue to burn. Then he turned on his heel and left the evidence behind him, heading for the nearest bridge.

Why not just toss the bag into the river? Personal experience.

John had just started getting good at killing, had finally started to perfect his art. He had tied the bag of clothes he had been wearing that night and threw it into the middle of the Thames, watching it float away. He hadn't given it a second thought.

Until the police found it a week later.

He had been lucky, that time, because he hadn't tied the bag well enough. The water had damaged the contents to the point where no DNA or trace evidence could be lifted, but they had gotten his height and build down. That had been enough to scare John.

So he had immediately changed his habits. He started hunting for victims earlier in the evening, so that the kill was done before three in the morning, and he would have time to burn the evidence. Then only ashes and whatever didn't burn would be swept down the river, and the heat of the fire would have immediately burned off any evidence that they had been his. It was much more time-consuming, but it was smart.

John paused only once on his way to the bridge, and that was to pick up a flat grey stone. He tossed it up into the air and caught it over and over again as he walked. With every slap of the stone against his palm, he remembered stabbing the knife through Sally's chest, her neck. He remembered the shock on her face the first time the blade had pierced her gut. The way her lips had parted in a silent scream, but John hadn't given her the chance to make any noise.

A slow smile spread across his lips. Sally had been so… reactive. He wished he could kill her over and over again, but all he had now were the memories. Shame.

The sun—or at least, the orange haze coming through the smog—was slowly rising between the towering office buildings when John reached the narrow stone pedestrian bridge. Pulling himself up onto the solid railing, he dangled his legs over the river, crossing his ankle over his knee. Whistling softly to himself, he used the narrow edge of his stone to methodically start scraping away the mud from his shoes.

He didn't get it all, but that was alright. It would help him construct a more solid lie.

He had just finished scraping off the first shoe and was about to lift his other leg when his phone chimed from his pocket. John fished it out, knowing it could only be one person.

_Where are you? –SH_

Sighing, John typed out a response. _Watching the sunrise on the Thames. –JW_

He lifted up his other leg, beginning to scrape it off when his phone chimed again. John waited for a jogger to pass before he picked up the device and read the message.

_Do we even get sunrises in London? –SH_

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was in a good mood this morning, which meant two things. One, that he would be irritatingly loud and flighty for the rest of the day, and two, that something had happened. Something, like, a case. And a good one, going by Sherlock's attempt at humor.

Shit, and John had been hoping for a quiet day.

_Did you need something, Sherlock? –JW_

The reply was almost instant this time. _Lestrade phoned, said that he needed me—which means us—down at the Yard immediately. So, I reiterate, where are you? –SH_

John's eyebrows raised. If Lestrade wanted them down at New Scotland Yard this early, then he probably already knew about Sally, or at least suspected something.

John grinned out over the river. He loved when his work was found quickly. Always best to appreciate it when it's fresh.

John hesitated on his answer, pretending to play dumb, though he knew exactly where he was. He knew the streets of London just as well as Sherlock did. _Sitting on a pedestrian bridge overlooking the Thames. Not sure where, exactly, though I can't be too far from the flat. I didn't leave that long ago. –JW_

John could almost imagine the muffled sigh and eye roll Sherlock was giving. John wanted nothing more than to slap him when he did that. _What color is the bridge? –SH_

_Muddy-red brick. –JW_

It was really much closer to a deep russet, in John's opinion, but he obviously wasn't going to say that.

_Send me a picture. –SH_

John's eyebrows furrowed together. A picture? What? What the he— Oh. Of the bridge, for an exact color. God, naturally, Sherlock would have categorized the brick bridges in London by color.

John snapped a picture of the bricks and sent it to the consulting detective. He went back to scraping the mud from his shoe, ignoring another jogger that passed behind him, and a walker pushing a baby stroller.

_Haven't killed a kid yet. Wonder what that would be like?_ John mused to himself as he whistled out loud.

His phone dinged. _I know where that is. I'll be there quickly. Your jacket is still here, would you like it? –SH_

John stared at the screen for a solid five seconds before typing out a quick _sure_ and sending it. Sherlock was being kind this morning as well? Had he done something wrong that was making him want to get back on John's good side? John hoped so, because that would mean he could be mad at Sherlock and not talk to him for at least a day.

He pocketed his mobile, going back to work getting the caked mud off of his shoe. When it was finally as clean as he could get it, he tossed the stone out into the water. Lowering his ankle from his knee, John continued to sit in that place, staring down at the murky water flowing below him.

"If you're waiting for the sunset, it might be a while." John had heard the approaching footsteps, but he was honestly surprised Sherlock was here already. The bridge wasn't _that_ close to the flat.

"What did you do, sprint?" he asked, slowly turning around as if he was afraid he would fall, and setting his feet down on the solidness of the bridge.

Sherlock smirked at him, and damn him, he already looked perfectly groomed, even though it was hardly six in the morning. The detective tossed John his coat, nodding with his head toward the street. "Come on, I've got us a cab." He started walking, confident that John would follow.

The serial killer in John wanted to flip him off and turn the other way, but John stamped that part of himself down. He was acting right now. Part of his act was being an obedient follower and a pushover, no matter how much it pained him. So he went after the taller man, wondering how much force it would take to kill him if he were to run at him right now.

_Calm, John. You don't want him dead, remember? You're playing with him._

John took a deep breath, his mind and body slightly eased by his thoughts. No, he wasn't going to kill Sherlock, not unless he needed to. And he was actually really hoping it wouldn't come to that.

He jogged up to where Sherlock was holding the door of the cab for him and slid inside. He laid his jacket across his knees, staring at the back of the cabbie's head as Sherlock slid in beside him and gave the address for the Yard.

"Didn't want it after all?" Sherlock asked, nodding at the jacket.

"Forgot to put it on, to be honest," John explained, and it was the truth. He had been so caught up in his thoughts that he had forgotten he had been holding the article of clothing.

Sherlock didn't reply, just turned his head to look out of the window. A few moments later, he started tapping his fingers, and John had to fight not to roll his eyes. Great, so he could deal with talking, or he could deal with annoying fidgets.

"Did Lestrade tell you what this was about?" Talking it was.

"Missing person," Sherlock said immediately, as if he had been waiting for John to ask that exact question and the reply had been right on the tip of his tongue. "Though he didn't specify _who_ was missing. Just said it was urgent." All of this was said without turning his head. And when he was done, he went right back to tapping his fingers.

_Damn it_.

John held in his sigh of frustration. He turned to look out of his own window, watching the people on the street as they passed by the shop windows. He wondered how many of them had been affected, in one way or another, by his doings. Then he realized that he didn't care. People, he decided, didn't matter, unless he was toying with them or studying them or about to kill them. Or all three.

"You don't watch the sunrise."

John jumped at the suddenness of Sherlock's cool and calculating tone. "Sorry, what?" he asked, turning to look at the detective, who was still gazing out of the window.

His reflection locked gazes with John. "You don't usually get up to watch the sunrise. What changed?"

The fact that Sherlock was asking about John on a more personal level, especially given that there was a case dangling in front of his nose, concerned John. But he couldn't _not_ answer. The flatmate that Sherlock knew always answered his questions.

"I don't know." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I woke up early and decided to go for a walk instead of trying to fall back asleep."

Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat and moved his reflection's eyes away from John's. "Flashback?" he asked, his voice a little quieter this time.

John feigned a surprised look. "How did you know?" He had to resist the urge to twist his lips into a smile as Sherlock hid his smirk of knowing.

"Educated guess." Aw, he was being modest. How cute.

John had to look away to hide his eye roll.

Finally, they pulled up in front of the Yard. John had been inside of here a lot since moving in with Sherlock. He was never, no matter what, going to end up in here as a caught criminal. He would rather die, and so he would. If the time ever came, he would have no problems pulling the trigger on himself. But the time wouldn't come. He was smart enough.

Smart enough to befriend the detective.

Lestrade was waiting for them just inside of the doors, and he looked a little pale, even through his fading tan that remained from his vacation. "Sally's missing," the Inspector blurted out, his hands wrung together.

Sherlock stopped and stared at him, and John halted a little behind him, staring with a mix of curiosity and concern at Greg. "What do you mean?" John asked, knowing Sherlock wasn't going to say anything nice. Unfortunately, that was _his_ job. "Are you sure she isn't, just, late?"

Greg shook his head rather forcefully, and John wondered how late he had been up last night. Wondered when exactly he had gotten the call about Sally. "She's never late. Always ten minutes early, on the dot. This… this isn't like her. And her flat is empty."

Sherlock made a small, irritated noise. "Well you could have started with that." Greg looked like he was about to yell, but Sherlock never gave him the chance. "I'm going to assume you have sniffer dogs out?"

John's gaze fell back on Lestrade, who was nodding. He looked tired, worn, and weary. He looked weak. Not the kind of kill John usually went for. He enjoyed a good fight, liked seeing the bruises on his chest and sides and arms the next day. Reminders of what he had done. And if he pressed his thumb against them, he could imagine almost perfectly the pain of the initial blow from his victim.

"I'm not a tracker, Lestrade. I'm a consulting detective. Unless you have a body present, I'm not going to be any help to you."

John nearly jumps back into the present at the sound of Sherlock's edging-angry voice. He realized that he had missed what Lestrade had said, maybe more than just a sentence. Shit. _Don't fuck this up now_.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, resting his hand on the Sherlock's elbow and tugging just enough to get his attention. "Back off. Lestrade's doing the best he can. He's just worried." And he had every right to be.

John watched as Sherlock physically composed himself in front of them. "You're right. I'm going to go outside, let me know about any developments." And he left as soon as the words were out of his mouth, leaving John's hand suspended in mid-air, empty.

Greg looked over at John as he dropped his hand. John sighed internally and stepped forward, putting his hand on the Inspector's shoulder and slowly starting to guide him towards his office. "It's alright. It's not you, he was just expecting something more… dead, I think," he reassured.

It was going to be a long morning.

Lestrade sat down heavily in his chair, immediately putting his head in his hands. "I have a bad feeling, John. A really bad, gut feeling." He looked up into John's waiting gaze. "I think she's dead."

John had to either give Greg props or recommend him a therapist, because he was either very intuitive or very depressed. Maybe a bit of both. "It's alright. I'm sure everything's fine. Must just be a miscommunication of some sort."

"Yeah… must be…" Greg mumbled, folding his arms over his desk and dropping his head into them.

John took a seat in a chair across from Lestrade's desk, resisting the impending urge to tap his foot with impatience. What was taking them so long? He hadn't left the body that far from Sally's flat. There was a pub a street north of there, and then he had travelled east and a little south again to his alley. It was pretty easy to find. But they were probably relying too much on the dogs.

After a few minutes of silence, John was about to go insane. He stood carefully from the chair, straightening his jumper and clearing his throat. "I'm going to go find Sherlock. Call if you need anything."

Lestrade mumbled something, but John couldn't make it out, so he left anyway. He made his way slowly through the winding maze of the Yard's interior, taking turns around cubicles that shaved off a few seconds of travel time. Time, he acknowledged, that he didn't care about.

He found Sherlock right outside of the double glass entryway, staring up towards the sky.

"She's dead."

John blinked, focusing more fully on the curly hair at the back of Sherlock's skull. "What?"

"She's dead," he repeated. "They found her a few minutes ago. Radioed in and told me. I just don't know how to tell Lestrade."

Oh. Wow. That's new. "He assumes," John supplied, taking a step forward so that they were even.

"I know."

_Of course you do, you self-confident prick._

"Let's go tell him, shall we?" And just like that, Sherlock spun on his heel and walked into the building.


	2. Don't Play with the Devil

John stood slightly off to the side, nearer the alley walls, his eyes following Sherlock like the goddamned obedient puppy he was pretending to be. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, which was perfectly straight.

They were standing inside of the yellow-taped crime scene. The police had the whole alley taped off. John had a feeling they would have taped off the whole street if it had been legally possible. Lestrade was standing about as far away from Sally's body as he could get, a look of _ill_ on his face that he was trying and failing to cover.

Sherlock, naturally, was right up next to her corpse. There was certainly no love lost there.

"Got anything yet?" John asked, taking a couple of steps forward, toward Sherlock and the body.

The sun had risen above the buildings by now, spreading the rare hazy light over John's meticulous work. In his opinion, his kills always looked better in the dark—more sinister, but mostly because that was when he had done the kill. His placement of everything had been in direct response to the lighting and where it would be seen and how it would be seen. It just looked… oddly plain and obvious in the light.

The light did, however, provide one positive outlook. It allowed him to _see_—things he had missed, things that looked too cliché, the things that were too subtle.

The light helped him to improve.

"Of course I do," Sherlock replied, carefully studying Sally's cold hands. "Too much for all of it to be relevant," he set her hand down and peered at the stitching on the sleeve of her shirt, "or even accurate, for that matter."

John resisted rolling his eyes, settling for a chuckle instead as he stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. "Are you saying you're wrong about a bunch of things?"

Sherlock's body stopped moving, and, balancing on just the balls of his feet, he turned to face John. His bright eyes automatically locked onto John's slightly narrowed ones and locked with them. John found himself not wanting to look away. "No, John, I'm saying that extra evidence was left behind to purposefully lead me astray."

_Well, damn, that was quick._ John put on a mildly curious and slightly disturbed look. He hadn't expected Sherlock to pick up on that bit. A serious misjudgment on John's part.

Sherlock shook his head shortly, pushing himself to his feet. "Come on, let's go talk to Lestrade. I'm sure he doesn't want to come over here."

John tilted his head, gazing curiously at Sherlock's back as he walked away. His decent mood was still in place from earlier, and he wasn't smiling or energetic, which meant he was composed—conscious of what others would think or be feeling.

What was going on with him today?

There wasn't time to dwell on it, though. John wanted to hear what Sherlock had found, and he was already fifteen feet behind. He trotted after the consulting detective, slowing down only when he drew up alongside him, which was incidentally at the exact moment they reached Lestrade.

"Well?" Greg asked, looking rather defeated, even through the guise he had finally managed to piece together.

There wasn't so much as a pause in Sherlock's breath as he dove right in. "Forty-seven stab wounds to the abdomen, chest, and neck. Hard to tell what kind of knife, but it wasn't serrated, an inch and a half wide at the base of the blade."

John was acutely aware that the knife being described was sheathed against his ankle at that very moment.

"She left her flat unexpectedly but willingly. Her hair isn't done, and she's not wearing makeup, but she's dressed for a fairly nice outing. She went to the pub on her street, ordered a tap beer for herself and a bottle for her companion, who was probably male."

"How—?" John began, though he already knew.

"Receipt in her pocket," Sherlock answered, with barely a sidelong glance in John's direction. "Her shoes are missing, and she had coins placed over her eyes, deriving from the ancient Greek tradition of burying the dead with money to pay Charon for a ride to the Underworld. But I'm pretty sure that's irrelevant."

_He's better than even I thought_. And John had been profiling him for eighteen months.

"What is relevant, then?" Greg asked, looking a little more alive now that he possibly had something to work with.

"Her killer was the same man she was with at the pub. He was taller and stronger than she was, though she was noticeably faster. So she more than likely knew, quite well, whoever killed her."

John eyed Sherlock. The man had said it himself once that there was always something he got wrong. John was not anywhere near taller than Sally, though he was stronger, and his bruises proved that she was faster.

Sorry, _had been_ faster.

"I'll put a call out for—"

"No," Sherlock cut Greg off, slowly shaking his head. "No, don't. You won't find him based off of what we have, you know that." His eyes narrowed on the Inspector. "Work with me, Lestrade. I don't want Dimmock to have to take over just because you weren't thinking."

Greg was quiet and still for a long moment before he nodded, running a hand down his face. "You're right. Sorry."

"It's understandable," John assured him, giving a long reprimanding glance at Sherlock that dared a contradiction. He got nothing, not even the slightest change in expression.

Lestrade nodded again. "Right. What do we do, then?"

"John and I are going to the pub to ask around." Sherlock pointed briefly at Lestrade's chest. "You are going back to the Yard to do your job." As always, there was a commanding, I'm-in-charge tone to Sherlock's voice, but right now, John also detected a hint of something near sympathy, if not the very thing.

John watched as Sherlock turned around, ever confident that he would be followed. Unfortunately, today was not the day to walk the other way.

After gesturing for Greg to follow first, John took up the rear, unable to resist taking one last look at the cold, destroyed corpse of Sally Donovan. It was a hard-fought war with himself to keep the smirk off of his face.

Sherlock gestured Lestrade towards his police car and watched while he got in. "We'll check in when we're done at the pub. Don't do anything stupid, please." Lestrade only nodded before driving away.

"He's taking it rather hard," John observed, stating an obvious fact, as they headed off down the street.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets, looking off to the left, away from John. "They were rather close."

John rolled his eyes. "What is with you today?"

Sherlock whipped his head around, pinning him with a peculiar gaze. "What do you mean? I'm no different today than I was yesterday or the week before that."

John laughed, stopping at an intersection. "Yes, you are. You're being nice, and it's slightly unnerving."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Am I not supposed to be nice? I thought you've been spending the last year and a half trying to get me to this point."

John started crossing the street, happy to have caught Sherlock off-guard with his question. "I have been. Don't get me wrong, I like the… change. It was just really sudden and… I don't know… odd, I guess."

"Well I can slow down. Make it less obvious," Sherlock suggested.

John laughed, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm. "No, Sherlock. God, stop overthinking your emotions. You're fine; it's appreciated."

Sherlock opened his mouth, looking like he was about to say something else, but John cut him off once more. "Sherlock. Seriously. I know emotions are new to you and everything, but they're not new to me. Trust me, please, when I say that everyone noticed, and everyone was happy with the change."

_Now shut up about it. I'm tired of consoling you._

After a hesitating moment, Sherlock nodded and lengthened his stride, stepping slightly in front of John, obviously retaking charge of the situation. John caught himself rolling his eyes, but he let it happen. It was something Sherlock's John probably would have done anyway. A convincing lie was based on truth, so John and the John Sherlock was flat-mates with often shared the same reactions. So, even if Sherlock caught an eye roll here of a heavy sigh there, it just made his manner all the more deceiving.

"How do you know where Sally lives?" John asked, in all reality quite curious. Cops weren't exactly open about the location of their homes; it had taken quite a bit of digging on John's part to find Sally's flat.

Sherlock cast a reproving look at John, one eyebrow slightly raised as if to ask if John had really just questioned his detective skills.

John held up his hands in a passive gesture. "Sorry if I offended you."

They entered the pub after a few minutes of collectively appreciated silence. Without preempt, Sherlock walked up to the drink bar and placed his hands on the smooth oak top. John stood slightly behind him and to the side, watching closely as the bartender turned around, looking for any visible signs of recognition.

There were none.

"Can I help you lads?" he asked politely, leaning his arms against the bar and smiling kindly at Sherlock.

_Flirting. He is flirting at Sherlock Holmes_.

John's blood heated up, and it was infuriatingly difficult to hide his annoyance and anger. _Wait, why do you care?_

_"Are you jealous?"_ The memory of Irene's question calmed him down. He was _not_ jealous. They were _not_ a couple. Sherlock was a tool John was using, a toy he was reveling chewing on.

End of discussion.

Sherlock had noticed too; it was obvious by the stiffness of his spine and the way his hands folded together. "We have a few questions to ask you about the woman who was killed last night."

The bartender nearly dropped the glass he was cleaning. "Are you with the police?"

Sherlock lifted one shoulder and cocked his head casually. John found himself wishing he could see his expression. "Sort of. Now, a few questions—"

"What? Are you like, a detective or something?" The bartender interrupted, obviously impressed with Sherlock.

John decided enough was enough. He stepped forward, placing his hand on the bar and snagging his finger on Sherlock's coat sleeve. A subtle sign of possession. No sharing.

_Just remember that you're acting_.

"Yes, he's the detective, and I'm the or something. Now, stop interrupting, and answer his questions, or you'll be charged with impeding the investigation." God, it felt good to play the bad cop for once.

Sherlock didn't look at John or give any sign to acknowledge what he had just done except for shifting his hand so that their fingers were brushing. _Not possession_, he seemed to be saying, _together_.

The bartender stiffened, looking between Sherlock and John, before he set the glass and rag down. "Alright, alright. What do you want to know?"

"What time did she come in here last night?" Sherlock started his inquisition.

"A little before one thirty. She ordered two drinks, started sipping from the tap beer herself and brought the bottle back to a man."

"A man? What man?"

He shrugged. "Not sure. He didn't come up to the bar with her. They sat in that booth over there," he pointed, "and that's where he waited for her to bring the drinks."

"Any description on him?" John asked, looking up from where he had written a few notes. Pointless notes, of course.

A head shake. "He was dressed darkly—jeans, a tee shirt, and a jacket. Short hair, but that's most blokes. Could have been any color." He shrugged helplessly. "It was busy, and I wasn't paying much attention. I caught a quick glance and that was it. Sorry, lads."

Sherlock patted the bar top a couple times with the pad of his hand before pushing away. The contact between his hand and John's was broken. "It's fine. Thanks, you've been a help."

John spun around and walked out first, wanting to get away from that desperate young man as quickly as he could.

Outside on the sidewalk, there was a hand suddenly placed on his shoulder, halting his momentum. Sherlock's voice kept him from turning around and demanding why the hell he was suddenly standing still when all he wanted to do was jog for three or four miles, maybe punch something. "Nice 'bad cop' role. Really knocked him off his game."

John glanced up at the consulting detective and, seeing the glimmer of humor in his eyes, burst out laughing. Sherlock immediately joined him, and soon they were both doubled up, giggling hysterically.

"Oh, god," John panted, straightening himself up with a hand braced on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock patted John's arm and started walking. Unsure where he was going, John followed along. "Seriously, though. That was good. And thank you."

John looked quizzically up at Sherlock once he was walking along side of him. "For what?"

Sherlock waved his hand in front of him. "For cutting him off. I hate when people flirt so obviously, trying to be discreet about it. It's annoying."

John started nodding in understanding before he caught a double meaning to the words. "Wait just a minute. So are you saying that if people _didn't_ 'flirt so obviously' that you would actually go on a date with someone?" Getting this kind of information from Sherlock was just too good a chance to pass up.

Sherlock gave John a forced pained look and trotted over to the edge of the street, holding his hand up for a cab. "Yes, John. I am not celibate, and I am not asexual." He shuddered when he spoke, expressing his obvious distaste for the topic.

But John wasn't done, much too intrigued at this point. "So… what? Are you gay, straight, what? I've been dying to know since I met you."

There was an eye roll handed over to John, which he felt tempted to return. But he was prying information, and that meant being nice. A cab pulled up and Sherlock climbed in, leaving the door open for John.

Eager for this conversation to continue, John crawled in just in time to hear Sherlock giving their home address to the cabbie. "Well?" he prompted, earning him an exasperated look from Sherlock.

"I knew it was a bad idea to bring this topic up," he muttered.

"Is it making you uncomfortable?"

"Yes, very."

"Good. You've done that enough to me. Now please, please tell me. It's not like I have any room to judge, either way. Harry's gay, and I'm possibly bisexual, so everything's fine."

Sherlock whipped around and narrowed his eyes. "Possibly bisexual?"

_Shit. Now you've done it._

John held up his hand. "No. You're going first. I asked first."

Sherlock swallowed and groaned, dropping back against the door so that he was angled toward John. "Well, I wouldn't know exactly. I've only ever been with a man," he finally admitted, his voice a murmuring quiet.

John stared at him for a long while. "Top or bottom?"

"John…"

"I wanna know!" He was grinning, though not maliciously. He legitimately wanted to know. He nudged Sherlock's knee, prodding him into further speech.

"God, you nosy prat. Top."

John gawked, his eyes a little wider than normal. He snapped his jaw shut. "Sorry, I guess that's not that shocking, it's just… I'm having a hard time picturing you in a sexual position at all."

"Then stop picturing it," Sherlock said simply, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. "Alright, your turn. 'Possibly bisexual?' What, exactly, does that mean?"

John ducked his eyes and blushed, but his stubbornness forced himself to look back up. If Sherlock could admit to it, then so could he. "Well, I've only ever been with women, but… I've found men attractive." He paused, reconsidered. "A man."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Just one man? Must have been one special guy."

John shrugged, nodding ever so slightly. He could tell by Sherlock's face that he had absolutely no idea John was referring to him, and he didn't want to say anything to change that. "So why not a woman first?"

"John!"

Laughing, John held up his hands in a passive gesture. "Yes, yes, alright then." He patted Sherlock's arm and leaned back farther against the seat. "I acknowledge the hardship you just endured, confiding in a friend," he teased lightly, taking on Sherlock's superior tone of voice.

The other man just rolled his eyes, glancing past John's head out of the window. John took the cue and fell silent as well, allowing himself to roll this new information around in his mind. Sherlock was gay—probably. How… intriguing.

_Admit it, you like him._

_No._

When the cab pulled up outside of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock got out and paid, John following suit. "Mrs. Hudson went out," John noted, pointing at her missing coat from where it usually hung by the door.

Sherlock made a sound of acknowledgment before bounding up the stairs. With a soft sigh, John followed, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

It was nearing two in the morning, and the darkness around them was as deep as it would get tonight. It was perfect. Everything was perfect.

John stood in the foyer of an old hotel, closed for remodeling. Detective Inspector Dimmock was tied and gagged on the floor, propped up against the wall. If John were to be asked why Dimmock, he would have shrugged. He didn't know why; that was just the way it had to be.

Crouching down in front of the Inspector, John patted his cheek, beaming at him. He looked over the bruises forming on the other man's body, the small slit on his lip. It had taken surprisingly little violence and effort on John's part to beat this man into submission. "Ready to have some real fun?" he asked, drawing his knife from the sheath on his ankle.

Dimmock didn't make a noise, just sat there and glared accusingly at John.

"Oh, please. Don't give me that look. The expression is honor amongst thieves, not honor amongst murderers." He pressed the knife up against Dimmock's cheek, right above the tape that was holding his gag in place. "Shall we start here?" Without pausing, John stabbed the knife into his cheek until the tip hit his teeth, and then drew it away.

Blood spurted from the wound and proceeded to run down over the duct tape and drip from his chin. But John was more intent on listening to the muffled screams the Inspector was producing.

John grabbed a fistful of his dark hair, tilting his head back so that their eyes were even. "Shh, Inspector. No need to spend all of your energy now; I've only just begun."

John gave a broad smile and slashed a dark line just under Dimmock's jaw, catching some of the blood that rushed to the surface on the flat of his knife. "Do you have sweet blood, or coppery blood?" he mused, licking a small line over the blade. "Hm. A little bitter, there, Inspector."

In a flash of silver motion, the knife was stabbed straight into Dimmock's ribcage, between the last two ribs. He slammed his head back against the wall, arching his neck in pain. John twisted the knife, earning him a sharp scream and squeezed-shut eyelids.

"Ah, damn." John looked up at Dimmock. "Blood on my gloves. And such a shame; I was hoping these would make it through this streak of killings." Fisting his hand in Dimmock's hair, John slammed his head back against the wall, forcing his eyes open. "Oh well, I guess. Small sacrifices. Right, Inspector?"

Rocking back on his heels, John studied the knife protruding from Dimmock's side, noting the angle and depth of the stab. Everything he did was important. "You know," John mused, yanking the knife from Dimmock's side with a sharp twist and pushing to his feet, "I rather liked the way you looked with that thing sticking into your ribs. Little boring though, don't you think?" He rummaged in his to-burn bag and brought out a long arrow with two feathers tied to the notch at the end. "I've been saving this for something special."

John stepped forward, shoving Dimmock's arm away to give him a better angle. "But I guess you'll do." And then, with a practiced skill, he speared the arrow through the raw, bleeding hole already in in detective's side. "There you go," John whispered, cupping Dimmock's cheek and digging his thumb into the stab wound there.

Dimmock's eyelids fluttered, his eyes rolling up. John quickly drew his hand away and slapped him across the face. "No, no, no," he tutted. "Stay awake. I'm still not done yet."

Moving quickly, and with a grace that Sherlock's John didn't possess, he sliced deep lines across Dimmock's wrists, the crooks of his elbows, the inside of his thighs, hitting arteries, and major ones at that. Nodding once to himself, John stood once more, reaching for the empty end of the towing chain he had found on sight. With a soft grunt, he tossed it over a low ceiling beam, letting the end fall to the ground without a care for the noise it made.

"Time to put you in the spotlight," John murmured to Dimmock cheerfully, grabbing the rope that bound his ankles and using it to drag him closer to the chain. Dimmock struggled, moving his body in jerky motions as much as his bindings and pain tolerance allowed. "Now, Inspector," John chided, giving one last hard tug before linking the chain's hook through the rope, "don't be like that. You're going to be famous." John patted his cheek and walked away.

He hoisted the end of the chain over his shoulder and started walking away, bracing his feet as the dead weight of Detective Inspector Dimmock started moving in an upward direction. John kept pulling until he reached the place where the opposite hook had been driven into the drywall by himself.

He turned back to look at Dimmock, now hanging completely upside-down, the blood slowly dripping from the cuts along his body. John grinned, walking up and patting Dimmock's cheek fondly. "Let me know when you're getting dizzy." He backed off a couple of steps, watching the other man struggle, his movements making him swing on the chain. "Can't break it, deary. You're just killing yourself faster."

John's words had no effect on the Inspector, and John sighed, leaning back against the small table that his to-burn bag was sitting on.

It took nearly fifteen minutes, but eventually John noticed the slow in Dimmock's frantic movements, a heaviness to his eyes and a shallowness to his breathing. Finally.

Grabbing his knife from the table, John strolled forward and halted Dimmock's swaying. "You did good, old chap. You did a mighty fine job," John assured him before he drove the knife into the detective's jugular and pulled to the right, tearing it open. Blood poured from the gaping wound, splashing onto the ground.

John grimaced. "What a mess."


	3. The Devil's intention

"I just don't understand." Sherlock's voice was nearly a growl, his hand was stuffed in his hair, and he was pacing as quickly as he could without running. He had been like this all morning, and John, quite frankly, was getting bored.

"Sherlock, ripping your hair out and starting a fire in our flat by the friction of your feet is not going to help you solve it," John chided softly, looking up from the paper he was reading.

"John, you don't understand," he whined.

"Oh," John chuckled, "I think I do. You've been moaning about it all morning."

Sherlock gave an irritated noise as he turned back to the wall where he had pinned and taped up everything about the two murders. "Why?_ Why_ would he do this?"

John sighed. It had been two days since he had hung Dimmock in the hotel. Two days to give himself a break and let Sherlock stew for a while. "Maybe they're not connected, Sherlock. Ever think about that?"

The frustrated detective waved a hand at him. "Of course I have. And I dismissed it instantly. Same knife, same playful style. No, they're connected." Sherlock jabbed his finger at one of the crime scene photos. "I just don't understand why he's not gloating. They're perfect kills. A killer usually gloats by now."

John tried hard to fight his pride down. _Perfect kills_. Damn right, they were. "There have been killers who kept quiet for upwards of a decade, knowing that they had unrecognizable kills that they didn't want to be put away for. One killer even disguised all of his kills as natural occurrences. All that mattered to him was that those people died when they did." John returned to reading his paper, chuckling softly to himself as Sherlock made an exasperated noise.

"This isn't the same. These kills… they're not designed to be covered up. They're designed to be seen. Whoever is killing… he plans everything. And if he does something unexpectedly, he coordinates everything else around his mistake to disguise it." Something hard slammed into the mantel of the fireplace and John jumped. "He takes his time killing them, drags it out, tortures them, but he's not a sadist. He gets no pleasure from what he does. Satisfaction, maybe, but not pleasure."

"How are you so sure he's not a sadist?" John asked, looking up again from his paper.

Sherlock gave him that are-you-seriously-questioning-me look, the one that really got under John's skin. "Everything he does, every wound he inflicts, is methodical and planned. He doesn't get excited and hurry or slow it down to enjoy it more."

John arched his brow as Sherlock turned back around. He was most certainly correct, but John wasn't going to say anything.

"I'm getting tea, do you want any?" John set the paper down on the floor and stood, walking towards the kitchen.

"No," Sherlock all but snarled.

"Don't get snappy with me, I'm just offering you tea." John put the kettle on and went back to the doorway with his hands on his hips. "And weren't you trying to be nice just a couple of days ago?"

Sherlock turned to cast an accusing look at John. "I wasn't frustrated a couple of days ago."

John held up his hands and went back into the kitchen. The tea had only just finished when there was a loud crash from the parlor. "What the bloody hell was that?" he yelled, setting the kettle down and jogging to the entryway.

Books, at least two shelves' worth, were scattered on the floor, and Sherlock's chair was lying on its side, the cushion half out of the seat. Sherlock was staring at the mess around him, his chest heaving, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He looked up at John, and his eyes were wild, uncontrolled.

John had never seen him like this, and it did something to him to know that_ he_ had caused it.

"What, so now you've lowered yourself to throwing fits like an infant because you don't understand a killer?" John taunted, caught somewhere between angry and pleased, as he walked farther into the room.

Sherlock glared. "I am not _throwing a fit_—"

"Looks like it to me." John stepped over some books and found himself confronted with Sherlock, who had moved to stand in front of him.

"I'm not an infant," Sherlock snarled. John watched the lines of tension in his neck and shoulders quiver as he spoke.

He looked up, meeting Sherlock's gaze squarely, narrowing his eyes in a challenge. "Well you're acting like one," he snapped, his gaze flickering between Sherlock's intense eyes, watching the multitude of emotions run through them.

_Lay a hand on me. I dare you._

Sherlock just stood there, seemingly frozen, unblinking. John barked a short laugh, disappointed, and turned away, moving to step over the scattered books.

He hadn't gotten more than a step in before a hand wrapped around his elbow and yanked him back, spinning him around at the same time. John was disorientated for just a moment before there were lips roughly pressed against his own.

John growled, responding with more force, parting his lips and forcing his tongue between Sherlock's lips. The low groan that escaped from Sherlock's chest was all John needed for encouragement.

He planted his hands on the detective's chest and shoved him backwards against the mantle, careful not to break the kiss. He pressed up against Sherlock, pleased at the sharp hiss he made when his back dug into the fireplace. John ripped at the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, tearing most of them in his rush to get him undressed.

Sherlock apparently had similar ideas. He grabbed at the hem of John's jumper, trying to pull it off, but John wasn't letting him, not just yet. He shoved Sherlock's hands away, pushing his shirt and jacket from his shoulders and off of his arms as John properly fucked Sherlock's mouth with his tongue.

For a moment, Sherlock's hands were trapped behind his back, stuck in his shirt sleeves, and John wanted to keep him like that, to fuck him tied up and completely at his mercy, but then Sherlock pulled free of his shirt and spun them around, caging John up against the fireplace.

Sherlock broke away from the kiss and attached his mouth to John's neck, biting and sucking in a way that was just too good. John tipped his head back, arching his neck in a silent beg for more. Of course that only made Sherlock stop. He yanked John's jumper over his head, and now they were even once again. John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair at the base of his skull and pulled him into another teeth-grinding kiss, scratching his fingernails down his chest and over one of his nipples. Sherlock gasped against John's mouth and ground his thigh in between John's legs and up against his erection.

"Oh, fuck," John swore, breaking away from the kiss and scrambling for the button and zip of Sherlock's trousers while the other man did the same to him.

They shuffled awkwardly and in a hurry towards the bedroom as they undressed, but they never made it past the center of the parlor. "Fuck this," Sherlock growled, pulling John down as he lowered himself to the floor.

At first, John was alright with this idea. He wanted Sherlock, and he wanted him now. But then Sherlock rolled them so that John was pinned beneath him, and that was not alright. "I am not bottoming to you, Sherlock," he growled, trying to push the other man off of him.

A look of challenge rose up in Sherlock's eyes. He grabbed John's wrists and forced them above his head, somehow managing to pin them both in just one hand.

_Fuck this_. John yanked his arms, bucking up with his hips, trying his damnedest to throw Sherlock off or give himself some sort of leverage, but he couldn't get out of Sherlock's grip. _He's bloody strong._

Sherlock fisted a hand in his hair, grinding their hips almost painfully together, but the pleasure that rolled off of that gesture overrode the pain easily. "Stop fighting it," he snarled, his teeth grazing John's ear. "You know you like it."

John groaned, arching his back so that their chests touched. God, did he ever like it. Fighting Sherlock, the pain, the pleasure, even the knowledge that he was going to be beaten was turning him on.

"Better." Sherlock released John's wrists, and immediately John had them running over his back, scratching lines that would certainly still be there in the morning. Sherlock ground their pelvises together again, and John gasped when their erections brushed against each other. When he closed his lips, he found fingers in his mouth. "Suck on these for me." Sherlock licked a line across John's neck before sucking and biting on the same spot that John had thought felt amazing.

John bit down on them instead, digging his nails into Sherlock's shoulder. "Dammit, John," Sherlock hissed in pain, trying to pull away for only a moment before he was moving, shifting so that his hand was between their bodies.

John's jaw slackened in surprise at the sudden warmth of a hand around his cock, slowly and agonizingly stroking him. He rolled his head back, arching his neck and sucking on Sherlock's fingers. God, this man could have him five ways to Sunday if he kept touching him like that.

"That's right," Sherlock practically purred, his voice still carrying that deadly undercurrent that made John's cock twitch, "get those all slicked up for me."

It was difficult to focus on words and what he was doing with his own mouth when Sherlock was expertly jerking him off, giving precisely placed bites and sucks along his neck. His anger was slowly fading away into nothing but rolling pleasure when the fingers were suddenly yanked from his mouth and he was flipped over onto his stomach.

Sherlock's hand was still somehow circling John's cock, but there were other fingers to focus on now. With gentle touches, Sherlock was tracing John's entrance with one slicked up finger. And then it was being pushed inside of him, all the way in.

John cursed, trying to pull away, but Sherlock was having none of that. His hand left John's throbbing erection and pressed down on the small of his back, holding him steady against the rug. John fisted his hands as another finger was pushed in, stretching him open mercilessly. They moved inside of him, scissoring to open him deeper.

"Shit, Sherlock," John groaned through clenched teeth as those fingers left their torturously slow pace and picked up a quicker one. He hissed when his prostate was brushed, and Sherlock responded by attacking it.

John couldn't seem to draw a breath. He felt like he was being strung out, like he was cracking, falling apart. He was conscious of the addition of a third finger, and the brief pain that brought, but he was too focused on what Sherlock's other fingers were doing to him.

And then it was gone. All of it, just gone. He pushed up with his hands, trying to turn around, to get it back, but he was shoved back down, his wrists grabbed and held together at the small of his back. John growled, trying to wiggle around and flip over, but all that got him were rug burns.

"Look at you," Sherlock chuckled, "all desperate for my touch. That's a little unlike you, John." Sherlock's breath was tracing his ear.

John's shoulders trembled in his suppressed anger. He felt a pressure on his entrance and he snapped, moving quickly but in jerky movements, taking advantage of Sherlock's momentary distraction to flip them over.

He pinned Sherlock on his back, trapping his wrists down by his hips. John could see the look of shock on his face, and he wanted to keep it there. He grinned maliciously before swallowing Sherlock's cock.

The large member in his mouth felt strange, tasted strange, but it wasn't bad. Sherlock's reaction was what kept him going. He had thrown his head back against the floor, his neck and shoulders arching up off of the rug. His hands had curled into fists and he was trying his hardest to pull them away from John's grasp.

It didn't take John long before he had picked up a rhythm, bobbing his head and sucking, pressing and swirling with his tongue every so often.

With a sharp curse, Sherlock thrust up into John's mouth, and John had to let go of one of Sherlock's hands to press his hip back down into the rug. Instantly, that hand was in his hair, pulling roughly on it. John growled around Sherlock's cock, pulling away to glare up at him. "Now who's craving whose touch?"

John blinked and found himself on his back once more, Sherlock above him, panting down at him.

"I have always craved your touch, John Watson."

John blinked up at Sherlock in surprise, not expecting such open honesty from him. "I still don't want to bottom to you," was all he managed to say in his daze.

Sherlock laughed. "Yes you do." He thrust all the way in before John even knew what was going on.

John grabbed onto Sherlock's wrists, anchoring himself. "Oh… god. Bloody hell." He bucked up against Sherlock, pushing him in deeper.

"See? I told you," Sherlock whispered, slowly pulling back and sliding back in.

John was alive with sensation. He felt so full, so damn perfect with Sherlock inside of him. "More," he gasped, reaching up and wrapping his fingers in dark curls. "I don't want it soft."

A sharp light came into Sherlock's eyes, and he immediately started pounding into John.

John moaned, tightening his hold in Sherlock's hair. With every hard thrust, he slid across the rug, getting friction burns all across his back. But he didn't care—that just made it hotter. Suddenly, Sherlock's hand was stroking him again, quickly pulling him to the edge. "Sherlock—fuck—no." John tipped his head back, gritting his teeth. "God, I'm too close."

Sherlock only moved his hand and hips faster. "Good. Then you understand my situation perfectly," he growled.

All it took to bring John over was the sound of Sherlock's low voice. He cried out, yanking on Sherlock's hair and arching his back as he shot ropes of cum onto his stomach.

"Christ," Sherlock gasped, slamming home one last time as he emptied his hot seed into John.

They both collapsed together, panting hard as Sherlock laid down on top of John, covering him completely. John released his fist in Sherlock's hair, gently combing through the mussed curls instead. "Holy shit," was John intelligent comment.

Sherlock chuckled, pressing a line of kisses that trailed fire across John's collarbone. "Possibly bisexual?" he questioned, lifting his head to gaze up at John through his lashes.

John laughed, gently smacking Sherlock's shoulder. "Only for you," he admitted, shifting slightly under Sherlock. "Come on, I feel a shower right now."

Sherlock stood, pulling John up with him. John leaned up on his tiptoes, his hands on Sherlock's chest to steady himself, and kissed him slowly but firmly, his hand wrapping around Sherlock's neck to hold him still. Sherlock responded in kind, his long violinist's fingers cupping John's cheek. "This isn't going to get us very far if you actually want that shower," he murmured against John's lips once they had broken apart.

Sighing, John grabbed Sherlock's hand and led him to the bathroom. They took their time showering, soaping each other up and trading torturous blowjobs. After they were dry, Sherlock led the way to his bedroom and they curled up under the blankets, John's head resting on Sherlock's chest.

_Back to being fucking docile_, John bemoaned to himself.

_At least he's a good lay._

_Not sure if it's worth it_.

John cut off the argument in his mind when he heard Sherlock talking.

"—if I came on to you too sudden. I don't know what happened."

John shifted to look up at the other man, his brow furrowing. "Are you apologizing?" he asked, his voice lilting into a tease.

Sherlock shoved his shoulder. "Shut up, I'm being serious."

John chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's chest. "Christ, Sherlock. Do you think I didn't want that? Because I can assure you that I did. That was… I don't even know how to describe it."

"I seem to have that effect on people." Sherlock smirked, his hand tracing over the expanse of John's shoulders, those long, careful fingers focusing intently on outlining the scar on John's shoulder.

"Oh, we're being sarcastic now, are we?" John stroked his hand soothingly down Sherlock's side. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. You only get sarcastic when you're tired."

"John, I can't possibly—"

John placed his hand over Sherlock's mouth, cutting him off. "It wasn't a suggestion. Calm your mind—or shut it off or whatever it is you do—and get some rest. You're tired. You haven't slept in four days."

Sighing, Sherlock pulled John's hand from his mouth. "But the case—"

"—will still be there when you wake up," John finished for him. "Listen to me, please, and go to sleep."

_Jesus Christ, fall asleep so I can get out of this flat and really mess with your mind._

Sherlock sighed, this time in defeat. "Alright, I will. Only a couple of hours though," he said, running his palm over John's shoulder.

"Make it four and we'll call it fair," John countered, a small grin gracing his lips.

He got a groan in answer. "John, please. I need to work."

John laughed at the ridiculousness of that notion. "On what?" he asked incredulously. "Pulling your hair out? No, I love your hair, leave it be."

"Yes, fine, alright. You're right." Gentle lips pressed against John's forehead. "Four hours. Absolutely not a second more."

Chuckling, John rolled over to grab Sherlock's phone. "I'll set an alarm. What's your passcode?"

Sherlock snatched the mobile from John and typed in the code himself.

"What? It's not my name, is it?" John asked, slightly, stupidly, offended.

Sherlock snorted and set the phone aside, presumably finished setting the alarm. "Don't be idiotic. I just don't want you snooping through my phone. One morning of amazingly rough sex is not going to make me trust the entirety of my personal life to you."

_Well, at least he's not stupid._

"And a year and a half of living together?" he asked, pushing his voice into an offended tone.

Sherlock nodded his consent. "True. But the answer is still no."

John laughed, leaning up to gently kiss Sherlock's cheek. "Alright, you stubborn man. Go to sleep, please."

Sherlock sunk down lower onto the bed, turning onto his side and loosely draping his arm over John's ribs. Smiling, John idly traced patterns across the detective's milky skin until he knew he had fallen asleep.

He rolled out of bed as quickly and quietly as possible while still not disturbing Sherlock's gentle slumber. The first thing he did was check the alarm. He had three hours and forty-five minutes starting now. Slipping from the room, he trotted upstairs, grabbing two changes of clothes—pulling one of them on now—and stuffing the other into a plastic bag.

He strapped his knife sheath against his ankle and pulled his gloves on, and he was gone from the flat that quickly.

Daylight kills were always more dangerous, always more fun. It was like a game of hide-and-seek, except the consequences were a lot harsher if you got caught.

_And I get to play with knives_, he reminded himself, a playful grin parting his lips.

This time was more of a challenge. Now, he was being timed. John checked his watch. Three hours and fifteen minutes. Good thing he knew exactly who he was killing and how he was doing it. He had had two days to plan this murder, he had only been stuck on _whom_ to kill.

Now he knew.

He had come to a revelation back at the flat. He knew why he was so fascinated by Sherlock, why he was so intent upon killing the people he was killing now.

He was, madly, crazily, in love with Sherlock Holmes. And he was killing off every person who had ever mocked him or put him down.

And the next person on his list was Anderson.

John hailed a cab, already excited to feel the life slipping out of the man's body as he straggled him to the brink of death over and over, to hear his muffled screams as he is scalped, as his fingernails are pulled slowly from his hands.

Oh, John was going to enjoy this one.


	4. Symptoms of the Devil

John woke up, overly warm, lying beside a sleeping Sherlock. Their legs were hooked together, their hands clasped on top of Sherlock's stomach. John was comfortable, but he felt exposed—two contradicting emotions that made his skin crawl with the feeling of spiders under his skin.

He had arrived home yesterday afternoon with blood on his hands and on his conscious, and with only five minutes to spare.

A mistake. Yes, he had definitely made one. And an underestimation.

He had expected Anderson to be alone.

Two people, two targets, two kills. In broad daylight, it was a miracle to accomplish such a feat with a long-range rifle, let alone only a knife and some silly little props. He had done it, by some half-held prayer, but he had slipped up. Only once that he was aware of.

It wasn't entirely major. The clasp on his glove had come undone and the leather article of clothing had nearly fallen off. He had gotten blood on his palm, but he was fairly certain he had left no evidence behind. But fairly certain wasn't one hundred percent certain, and he didn't like not being one hundred percent.

Sherlock stirred beside him, drawing him momentarily back to the present as his hand was squeezed and his hair was nuzzled into. He couldn't stop the small smile that spread his lips.

He had arrived at the flat and immediately ran upstairs, washing his hand off and stripping down to just his pants. By the time the alarm had gone off and Sherlock had awoken, John was collected and rational as he put the kettle on the stove.

"What are you thinking about?" John looked up at where Sherlock was presently, his eyes still closed, his breathing still shallow; his body giving every sign of being asleep. "I can practically hear your mind working," he murmured, parting an eyelid to peer down at John for a moment before closing it again.

John sighed softly, releasing Sherlock's hand to trace gentle, roaming patterns over his chest. "Just yesterday, you, work. The usual."

"Hm, work. Dull." Sherlock rolled and was lying on top of John before a warning was given. John started, grabbing on to Sherlock's wrist and watching closely as his eyes fully opened, his muscles tensing as he became completely alert. "You, however, are very interesting."

John hummed, pleased, and tilted his head as Sherlock nuzzled and kissed along his neck in_ that_ way. He slid his hands down Sherlock's back, appreciating the dip of lean muscles he found there. "Have you always found me interesting?" he asked, his breath making one of Sherlock's curls quiver.

Sherlock paused his exploration of John's throat, leaning up on his elbows to look down at him. "Yes," he answered simply, after a moment of silence that had made John squirm.

John's brow furrowed as Sherlock went back to mouthing his skin. He wondered for a moment just how interesting Sherlock found him, just how observant the detective had been. For just a fraction of a second, he let himself fear that Sherlock knew his secret. But he couldn't possibly. Because Sherlock would have called him out on it by now.

"You're thinking again," Sherlock mused, pulling John out of the dark workings of his mind. "What could possibly be more interesting than me?"

John grinned, digging the pads of his fingers into Sherlock's shoulder blade. "Absolutely nothing." He gently pulled Sherlock's chin up and kissed him, sliding their tongues together in the most delicious of slow ways. Sherlock hummed, and John felt the bed sink as he shifted above him, sliding his knee to press between John's thighs.

John moaned appreciatively, rutting up against Sherlock's leg.

"Look at you," Sherlock murmured once he had pulled back from the kiss, "so needy and demanding of me."

John whined as Sherlock returned his mouth to his neck, slowly beginning a torturous trek down. He didn't get very far before his mobile rang out shrilly from the nightstand. "Don't answer that," John pleaded, reaching to card his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

He was given a reproving look before Sherlock rolled off of him, reaching for the phone and bringing it up to his ear. "It's a little early for a wake-up call, isn't it, Lestrade?" There was silence for a moment. "Oh," Sherlock nearly whispered. "Oh, yes, indeed. I'll be there."

"What is it?" John asked, leaning up on his elbows to get a better look at Sherlock, sitting naked on the edge of the bed.

"Another murder. Anderson this time." John huffed and Sherlock laughed. "Yes, I feel about the same way."

With a sighed, John pushed himself up into a sitting position. "I imagine we had better get going then."

Sherlock was on him in an instant, pushing him back down to the mattress and running his hands over his chest. "I think we can spare a few minutes. Anderson isn't going anywhere." He straddled John's thighs, bending forward to bite along his collar bone.

John could hear him rustling around in the nightstand drawer, but he quickly lost track of moments as Sherlock continued to assault his skin with his lips, making the ache in his cock all the worse. Then there were teasing, cool fingers rimming him, and he arched up against them as if he and Sherlock had been doing this for years.

Sherlock wasted no time, pushing two fingers in to start. All of the breath left John's lungs and he clamped down around the intruding appendages. "You're a dick," he gasped, clawing at Sherlock's narrow shoulders.

"Shh, John," the detective murmured, brushing their lips together, petting gently along John's side. "Relax. You're alright. You can take this."

Sherlock started slowly moving his slicked fingers and John found himself relaxing, rolling his hips into the shallow thrusts. "Oh, god, Sherlock…" His head fell back, jaw clenched.

"I know, John," was the reply he was given, his prostate slowly being rubbed again. "I know."

His jaw slackened as a mantra of submissive sounds escaped his slightly parted lips. Bloody hell he had it bad for this man if he was willingly making submissive noises, but there it was. Sherlock's lips were on him, running down his neck, trailing fire across his collarbone. His teeth dragged over the steep peaks of his nipples, causing a high whine to mix in with the low moans John was already making.

"I love you like this," Sherlock told him as he pulled his fingers away. John could feel his knuckles brush against his inner thigh as Sherlock lubed himself up. "It's only the first morning and I'm already addicted."

"I'm a drug that won't kill you." It was an offhand comment, and one that John didn't even realize he had said until it had left his lips, but he meant it. He wouldn't kill Sherlock. He wouldn't.

Sherlock chuckled, pushing just the fat head of his cock inside. "I'm not so confident in that. I think you'll be the death of me."

John didn't know what to say to that—wasn't sure if he wanted to say _anything_ to that—so he was glad that Sherlock slammed into him right at that moment.

He gripped the sheets and arched his back, shifting Sherlock's cock in just that much deeper. "Fucking…" John gasped, rolling his hips in time to Sherlock's shallow rocking thrusts. "Oh! Right there, right there." His hand jumped from the sheets to wind through Sherlock's hair, tugging hard and earning a rough growl.

"There?" Sherlock asked, thrusting long hard strokes over and over into John.

All of the air fell from John's lungs and he had to fight to get it back. "Jesus Christ," he whispered, his voice shaking. He moved his hand out of Sherlock's hair, gripping onto his shoulder and scratching his nails over the soft white surface.

"I believe we have a time limit, John," Sherlock murmured, wrapping his long, violinist's fingers around John's cock and giving it a tight drag up.

John lost it. His scream got stuck in his throat as he came violently, his nails digging and scratching into Sherlock's shoulder. He hadn't quite come down from the intensity when Sherlock was joining him, emptying his hot load into John.

"Holy fuck, I think I drew blood, Sherlock," John commented, his hand falling away from Sherlock's shoulder and landing with a dull thud on the bed.

Sherlock chuckled, back to being his careless and superior self. "You most definitely did. Let's get cleaned up and dressed. I don't want Lestrade thinking he needs to send an officer over here to check on us."

John followed Sherlock as he rolled out of the bed and allowed himself to be led into the bathroom. He wetted a washrag which Sherlock took from him, using his careful fingers to mop up the drying cum on John's stomach.

John immediately snatched the rag away from him and set it in the sink to put in the wash later. No time for that now. He grabbed another rag and ran warm water over it, rung it out, and then made Sherlock turn around so that he could clean the cuts his fingernails had gouged into his shoulder. Excitement rolled in the pit of John's stomach at the sharp contrast of blood on Sherlock's pale skin.

"Sit down on the edge of the bath," John instructed, already reaching for the medical kit. "I need to put a bandage on that."

Sherlock didn't step back; if anything he loomed closer. John bristled, the hair on the back of his neck raising as he prepared for a fight.

"I enjoy watching you attempt to order me around," the detective smirked, reaching forward and brushing the tips of his fingers under the edge of John's jaw. His brow bunched together. "Relax, John. "I'm fine. I don't need a bandage."

John opened his mouth, about to argue, when Sherlock walked past him, knocking their arms together. John turned and glared after him, closing the cabinet door a bit too forcefully—hard enough to rattle the mirror. He was already rethinking his personal promise to not kill that man.

Regardless, he wasn't too that point yet. He wasn't so weak that he was going to end his problems this quickly and kill Sherlock_ now_. There was still fun to be had.

He returned to the bedroom and quickly changed into some loose jeans and a white jumper and blue undershirt. He requested that Sherlock wear his deep red shirt, and for once he actually listened. John greedily noticed the similarities between the color of the shirt and the tone of Sherlock's blood. It was going to be a very long day for him, waiting to get home and make Sherlock bleed some more.

"Ready to leave?" Sherlock questioned, slipping into his suit jacket like a second skin.

John walked forward and quickly ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, making it look at least a little more orderly. "Now I'm ready," he answered, stepping back and walking through the flat, grabbing up his coat as he passed by the door. He heard Sherlock behind him, easily keeping up with his long strides.

John hailed a taxi when he reached the curb, Sherlock coming to a halt immediately behind him. He didn't say anything, but John could feel a tightness to his body as he finished wrapping his scarf. "What are you feeling, Sherlock?" John mused, glancing up at him over his shoulder as a cab finally pulled up in front of them.

Sherlock cocked his head in confusion, reaching past John to open the door for him. "What do you mean?"

John slid into the seat and waited for Sherlock to join him and give the address of Anderson's flat before he spoke again. "Emotions, Sherlock. What are you feeling?"

A little spark of clarity lifted the soft cloud of confusion from the detective's face. "Apprehension. Anxiousness. Justice…" his voice trailed off as he shook his head. "I know that's wrong. No one deserves to die like that, but he was so horrible to me."

"People think terrible things, and despite the severity and cruelty of his death, you have good reason to be thankful he's gone." John reached out, resting his hand on Sherlock's wrist in an attempt to reassure him.

Sherlock stiffened but relaxed almost instantly, offering up a wan smile that John reciprocated.

They didn't say anything else for the rest of the surprisingly short ride—Anderson hadn't lived all that far from Sherlock, who had actually tried to stay as close as possible to his former classmate as he could. John remembered the day Sherlock had told him that story, and he had felt a mix of both disbelief and excitement over the knowledge that he now possessed fantastic blackmail and self-destructive material.

Lately, it had only helped him to find his next kill, his newest rush of adrenaline.

Lestrade was standing on the curb when they pulled up, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat and his head hanging low. John paid the cabbie and crawled out after Sherlock, narrowing his eyes on the Inspector.

"How are you, Greg?" John asked, though he knew the question was completely redundant. Lestrade's eyes were sunken, his cheeks were hollowed. It was evident he had lost at least five pounds, probably closer to ten. He clothes looked slept in for one, no, two nights. He was a mess.

Greg laughed at him, and even just his pitch sounded like it had crawled in a hole and given up the will to live. "I'm quitting as soon as this S.O.B. is caught, if he doesn't kill me first. That's how I'm doing."

John caught Sherlock's quick look at Lestrade as he turned away.

"Come on, John," Sherlock murmured as he took off after Lestrade, who was leaving a trail of alcohol fumes in his wake.

John followed, wondering what exactly was wrong with him to make him feel no sorrow for Greg.

Anderson and the young woman he had been with were found exactly where John had left them—in the sitting room, the girl on her stomach with her upper arm braced on the coffee table; Anderson was upside-down on the chair across the room, one leg draped over the backrest, the other hanging awkwardly against the armrest where it was broken at his pelvis.

The silence in the room was palpable, and John had no desire to break it. He had gone above and beyond grotesque and raw in this instance, due to the fact that he had been rushed. Finesse had been out of the question, so he had had to get their attention another way.

Hell, he had his own attention.

Sherlock had left his side already, but John hardly noticed, his eyes focused on what he had managed to do in the short span of time he had been given.

The girl had been his first kill. She had been sloppy, a surprise. A stab through the neck had silenced her screams and jerking the blade to the right had ensured that she wouldn't be any trouble. Pity, because the way she had instinctively clawed her fingers had held the promise of deep and bloody scratches.

To John's surprise, Anderson hadn't screamed. His jaw had been dropped, his throat working as he tried for words or at least some sort of noise. John had switched automatically from instant react mode to his playfully destructive mode. He had spun the knife around in his fingers as he advanced on Anderson, who had backpedalled himself into a corner.

He had pled, wept, tried to "help John see the right way." So when John had lunged, the fact that Anderson fought back threw John for a major loop. Disorientated for a moment, that was when Anderson had gotten the jump on him and nearly ripped off his glove.

John had snapped at that moment, beating his fist over and over against Anderson's face until he was unrecognizable but still very much conscious and alive. There was a fine skill to doing that, and John had mastered it on his very first kill.

He hadn't, regrettably, gotten the chance to strangle Anderson as he had formerly wished, but he had still scalped him, and his skin and slicked black hair was nailed to the wall behind where his body was positioned.

"Are you ready to hear it, Inspector?" Sherlock asked, backing away from Anderson's body and glancing wide-eyed across at Greg.

Lestrade nodded briskly, but his eyes were closed for too long before he met Sherlock's. "Give it to me, Sherlock. I want this bastard caught."

There was a slight pause in which multiple people on the force left the room, John staring after them with maybe too much interest. _Cowards._

"She was killed first," Sherlock said, directing their attention to the girl with a gesture of his hand. "Quickly, harshly. She wasn't supposed to be here. An unexpected kill, but her positioning is precise. She most definitely didn't fall like that."

"Any idea who she is?" John asked.

"Anderson's sister, visiting for the week to console him," he replied smoothly.

Lestrade scrubbed both of his hands down his face. "I don't even want to know how you knew that right now. What else?"

"Time crunch. He was rushed, which is why we're lacking all of the elegance that we saw at the previous murders. But he made up for it in violence, in raw power."

"Anything else?"

Sherlock's eyes swept the scene, John focusing on the tension in his jaw and in the ever-elegant curve of his neck. "Nothing of import at the moment. I'll be sure to call you."

_Not going to tell him about the conflict between Anderson and me, or did you really not notice it?_

With a heavy sigh, Greg gestured them out. "Alright, Sherlock. I appreciate it."

John watched as Sherlock's face crumpled with disappointment, turning away from Lestrade as the Inspector locked up the crime scene. John reached out and tugged gently on the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, and the contact seemed to help him compose himself.

"Keep your phone on you, Lestrade. Expect a call within two days, sooner if he kills again."

"Dear God, don't say that. You'll curse us." Greg clapped them both on the back as they walked to the car. "Find me some good news, Sherlock. Please."

"I'll do my best."

Sherlock slipped into a cab that had been hailed by an unknown person and John followed, spewing out their home address to the waiting cabbie. After so long of not speaking in such a silent room, it felt strange to hear his voice.

John felt an innate need to fill the silence that had haunted them from that room into the cab, but Sherlock wasn't offering any words and his body language was closed. John let it be.

The cabbie pulled up in front of the red canopy of Speedy's, and John moved to get out. "You go," Sherlock spoke up, gesturing him out. "I need to go to Bart's and consult their machinery. My mind relaxes in Molly's lab."

John hesitated on the threshold of the car door, twisted around to look at Sherlock. "You sure? You don't need my help for anything?"

"I'm sure. I'll text you if I need you. I won't be doing an experiments while I'm there, just thinking. Your presence would be very distracting."

John chuckled despite everything. "Alright, then. Home before ten, please."

An eye roll. "Yes, Mother."

John exited the cab and shut the door with a dull thud, taking a couple of steps back to watch as the vehicle took off, Sherlock very obviously wrapped up in his mind again.

Sighing loudly, John turned on his heel and walked into the flat, slamming and locking the door behind him. "Shit…" he breathed, hitting his forehead against the solid black wood. _He has something. He suspects something._

John clenched his fists and ran up the stairs, staring blindly around at the parlor. He wanted to destroy everything, to upturn the desk and tables and chairs. He wanted to crush that stupid skull between his hands and put his fist through the mirror.

He did none of those things. Calming his body but leaving his mind to its destructive thoughts, John walked into the kitchen and started up the kettle. He always preferred using the old kettle over the electric one because it took more focus, more time. And, he had to admit, it tasted much better.

So he tended the kettle, pretending that the dark color seeping into the boiling water was Sherlock's blood. Pouring himself a large mug of the tea, he thought through how he could stage the kill in here, what he could use as props. He snorted before taking a quick sip of his tea. What _wouldn't_ he use as a prop? The skull would be taken as a nice metaphor for something that he hadn't meant; he could repaint the smiley on the wall with Sherlock's blood and stab his knife through the center of it. Everything. Yes, everything would be exactly where he wanted it to be.

Planning it all brought John a sense of calm, and he settled into his chair to sip his tea, going over and over in his mind how he would go about performing the actual murder, correcting himself when something didn't fit or wouldn't work. He wasn't aware of how much time had passed until his phone chirped, the screen lighting up.

_Found something. Need your assistance. –SH_

John narrowed his eyes at the phone before sending off a rapid acknowledgement and rising from his chair. He was confident he was coming back, utterly confident that no matter what happened, he would end up on top, but there was still something he had to do before he left.

The cabbie dropped him off in front of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and John quickly trotted inside, taking the lift down to the morgue. Molly waved kindly at him through the window as he passed, and John found his hand automatically lifting to wave back.

Sherlock was waiting for him just inside of the lab doors, tugging his scarf between his hands. He looked up at John upon his entrance and tied his scarf around his neck. "Come on," he said quietly, his voice a bit lower than usual, "I have something to show you."

Cocking his head, John followed.

Sherlock took him back to the lift, pressing the button for the top floor and then leading him up a short flight of stairs to a thin wooden door. He pushed his way through, John on his heels.

The roof. John looked around, glancing about at the structures of the buildings around them.

"Sherlock, why—"

"Tell me I'm wrong, John." Sherlock's voice was soft, nearly carried away by the wind. "Tell me I'm wrong, and we'll leave."

John snapped his eyes to the detective, to the small piece of blood-coated brown leather he was holding out in his palm. He glanced up into Sherlock's gaze, the pain in his eyes evident even though they stood ten feet from each other. "You are so very rarely wrong, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock closed his eyes, curling his hand into a fist.

"What keyed you off to it?" John asked, stepping closer, stalking his prey.

"You knew about his death when I hadn't said anything. I told you it was a horrible way to die and you elaborated."

John nodded slightly, remembering. "Sometimes you made me forget myself." John lunged without further pause, reaching for the knife he had strapped to his ankle.

But Sherlock predicted, dodging the blow with the grace of a dancer and moving in to snatch the blade from John's grasp. John let his wrist be grabbed and then used the momentum of Sherlock pulling on him to run at him, grabbing him around the waist and throwing his shoulder into his gut.

Sherlock grunted, and John thought he had won when he found himself on his back, Sherlock throwing the knife away across the rooftop. "I can't believe I didn't see it earlier," Sherlock murmured, looking down at John pinned beneath him.

"Neither can I," John said, just to mess with him, before he flipped them over. Sherlock responded in kind, and soon they were rolling across the roof, wrestling for control over the other.

All motion stopped. John found himself with Sherlock's hands fisted in his jacket, the only thing holding his upper body from hanging over the edge of St. Bart's roof. John's hands flew to cover Sherlock's, holding on tightly. If he was released now, his weight would carry him over the edge and down to the street.

"I should just let you fall," Sherlock panted, shaking John a couple times as he was suspended.

John narrowed his eyes on the detective, whose face was flushed from windburn. "Yes, you should. But you won't."

Sherlock didn't move, his gaze flickering between John's eyes and somewhere past his head—probably at the pavement below. John took his opening. He brought up his knee and leaned back, trying to flip Sherlock over his head. He had already accepted that he might fall with him, but at least he wouldn't go alone.

But that's not quite how it happened.

Sherlock swore, releasing John and shifting off of him at the same time. John watched him brace himself against the roofline, saw how close he came to actually falling. "Sherlock!" he yelled, desperate, but he was falling, falling backwards, the air rushing his ears like an oncoming train.


	5. Epilogue

The slide of the bow and the soft melody surrounded me. I had lost track of how long I had been standing at the window, my eyes unfocused as I ran through each individual note that came in the song. Everyone thought playing was so easy for me, that I could just let go and the music poured from my fingers.

They were wrong, as they so often were.

I had to recall every note as I played, had to focus so intently on what I was doing that I often lost track of the world around me. That's why I played. I played when I needed to focus, when I couldn't risk my mind running off in another direction.

A soft hand on my back drew me away from myself. I blinked, and it was gone; the music had left my mind.

"Composing again?"

"No, Mrs Hudson," I said, turning my head to look down at her aging face. I tried to find the comfort that those wrinkle lines usually held for me, but all I found was more sadness and agony. "I wouldn't know what to write."

A soft sigh left her lips, and she gripped the back of my suit jacket. "Come on, Sherlock. It's time to go."

I turned away from her, staring blankly at the wall as I lowered the bow from my shoulder.

Time. Time was relative. The farther away a person was from a central point and the faster that person moved, the slower they actually became. Time could move backwards if a person was open enough to see it as just motion and not a continuum. But despite all of that, I, physically, could not go back in time. Just as I, emotionally, had to move farther away from the flatmate I once knew.

I set my violin in its case, snapping it shut with fingers that trembled. Why? Stupid. I wasn't nervous, nor excited, nor experiencing any other emotion that would give way to slightly shaking fingers.

_You haven't eaten in three days._

Normal. Typical.

And relative. Consuming food slowed me down. Why would I want to be slower than I had already become?

"Are you ready, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, her usually bright and lively voice now soft and muted.

"There's something I need to do," I told her, still staring at where my beloved instrument was now cocooned inside of its protective shell. "I'll return shortly." With no further warning, I left the living room and made my way to my bedroom.

I had found it on my pillow the night I had returned from St Bart's. A manila envelope and a piece of paper. The sealed envelope had captured my attention first, though I really should have been focusing on the scrawled words that decorated the paper.

Inside of the envelope were newspaper clippings, photos, copies of police reports. They dated back twenty years and moved forward. Murders, missing persons, suspected murders. Nothing to tie them; no one around to see the small pieces of evidence that so blatantly connected each and every case. A knife with a base of an inch and a half. Satisfaction in the killings but not pleasure.

John had had a long time to practice his technique before he had come to live at Baker Street.

I lifted the envelope from where I had placed it on top of the dresser, sliding out the hand-written letter that had originally been separate. Sharp, almost unreadable doctor's scribble covered it. John had known that there was a possibility that he wouldn't be coming back from that rooftop, and he couldn't risk not having a final word.

_How does it feel? Are your veins singing? Is your mind working in over-drive? Did you get the same rush that I got every single time I slit a man's throat or stabbed a woman in the chest?_

_Do you miss me yet? I bet you won't eat. Won't sleep, either. You're a wreck without me there. You're nothing._

_For what it's worth, I'm glad you did it. I'm sure you know by now that I would have killed you without hesitation. Have you figured out how long I've been deceiving you? Of course you have—you looked in the envelope first, didn't you? I've been profiling you a long time, Sherlock Holmes, and I've been killing for a lot longer._

_What are you going to tell Greg? The truth? That your flatmate/best friend/ lover was a murderer and you didn't know? No, you won't. You'll lie._

_Oh, and one more thing._

_Welcome to the club._

He hadn't addressed it to me, and he hadn't signed it. He hadn't needed to. Who else?

"Sherlock?" A knock at my door, timid and repressed. She was afraid.

"I'm coming." After slipping the letter back into the envelope, I placed it on the bedside table so that I could read it upon returning. Then I left, leaving the door cracked open behind me.

Mrs Hudson clung to me as we walked down the stairs and onto the pavement. I let her. I opened the rear door of the black car that Mycroft—who had been over twice now for personal visits—had sent, helping her inside and sliding in beside her.

We were silent on the ride to the cemetery. I was completely caught up in my own mind, pouring over the last four words of John's letter as I had countless times previously. _Welcome to the club. _

It was raining by the time we arrived at the iron-fenced graveyard, the place Harry Watson had demanded John be buried. I hadn't fought, because I had no pull in that decision. I was not next of kin.

Mrs Hudson brought out an umbrella that I took from her and held over the both of us, my arm wrapped loosely around her shaking shoulders.

We sat through boring speeches that would have made John yawn, and poor attempts at humor that even he would have disapproved of. Harry stood first to approach the flag-covered casket. She was crying, her lip trembling as she reached out to touch the wet material of the flag. When she sat, Mrs Hudson and I went together, and then a line of people I didn't know.

"I don't want to wait around," Mrs Hudson said once the casket had been lowered into the ground. I wholeheartedly agreed.

As we walked back to the waiting car, weaving through black-clothed bodies, one of them knocked hard into my shoulder on the outer edge of the crowd.

I turned my head, my eyes taking in all of the detail under the low-hanging hood. Dark blue eyes with shoots of desert yellow around the pupils. Obviously dyed hair that hung just above expressive eyebrows. A wink and a playful grin.

I smirked, nodding once at John before turning to leave with my landlady.

I wasn't concerned about leaving him—I would see him again, and sooner rather than later.


End file.
